


I never knew (that you could sing so softly)

by someonelsesheart



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Redemption, references to depression and suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-14 08:07:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9170026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/someonelsesheart/pseuds/someonelsesheart
Summary: “What do you want from me?”Widowmaker is silent for a moment. When she speaks, it’s barely a breath.“A way out.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> See end notes for warnings.

They find her in Iraq.

She’s half-curled behind a crumbling stone wall, staff gripped so tightly in her hand that her knuckles have gone pale as snow. There’s blood leaking from a cut down her forehead and into her eye. She blinks. Unpleasant.

She didn’t tell them where she was, but Winston always seems to know. He’s more intelligent than the average human, let alone gorilla – and just as he knows how to find her, he knows exactly who to send. She’s hiding from more loud gunfire when she hears, “Mercy, darlin’, you’ve found yourself in something of a predicament.”

McCree is standing in the shadows to her life, completely unconcerned about the gunfight that’s going on. Her heart jumps to see him, even though all she says is, “You should not be here.”

“So what you’re saying is you don’t need my help,” he says.

Disgruntled, Mercy snaps, “No. Help me, damn you.”

As he’s peeking out to take down an omnic, McCree says, “You could have answered the recall.”

“I’ve been busy,” says Mercy. “I did not know there was a recall.”

McCree only hums, hitting another omnic in the head.

He’s always been good at humouring her bullshit.

*

Angela Ziegler is a doctor. More than that, she’s a miracle worker. That’s how they view her, she knows – pure, perfect and irrefutably good. She doesn’t argue when they look at her like she’s the best thing they’ve ever seen when she stitches up their wounds and heals them in battle. When, on the rare occasions, she resurrects them. But –

There are so many she couldn’t save.

Jack. Gabriel. Gerard. Ana.

Well, that’s what she thinks.

She returns to headquarters one day from a jog and finds a cloaked figure sitting on her bed.

The woman smirks at her. “Hello, little medic.”

Mercy says, “ _Amari,_ ” and collapses into her chair.

“Darling, you really don’t look that happy to see me.”

“I am, but also,” Mercy admits, “I am not quite partial to talking to ghosts. Or hallucinations.”

Ana places a hand on her arm. “Angela, it’s me. I promise.”

“You were dead. Amel –” And, just like always, she chokes on the words, can’t quite force them out. Scathing, heartbroken, she says, “ _She_ killed you.”

Ana lifts her eyepatch and says, “Barely a scratch.”

Mercy is used to ghosts. She finds them in her dreams, behind corners, sometimes in her bed. She finds them where she doesn’t expect them and where she does. But she had never expected to see Ana Amari again.

She sits down heavily beside her on the bed.

Ana says, “You look tired, Angela.”

“It’s been a long day. We returned from a mission yesterday.”

“No, Angela.” Ana cups Mercy's face and runs her thumb across hercheek. “You look _tired._ ”

Mercy looks away so Ana does not see her eyes shine too bright.

“Tell me what you have been up to,” Mercy says, “and about your daughter.”

*

She learns how to be an Overwatch member again.

She learns how to patch up the ones she loves again.

Somehow, though, she still can’t heal herself.

One mission, she’s about to keel over from the overexertion of resurrecting one of the resistance fighters, pale and shaking. She feels Ana’s biotic gun hitting her, trying to heal her as much as she’s losing health. Lucio grabs her hand.

The fight wears on. She shakes them off.

She _is_ tired.

So tired.

*

When a break from routine comes, she almost welcomes it.

Almost.

Then she finds out who the break from routine is.

“She will only speak to you,” says Symmetra, looking at Mercy with narrowed eyes. “Why might she trust you more?”

“Amélie and Angela used to be good friends,” Ana says, running her hands through her long hair. “Before.”

“Widowmaker is no longer Amélie Lacroix.” Symmetra’s tone is condescending. “You must know that.”

“Trust me,” says Mercy, and her voice is harsh. “I do.”

“So you won’t meet her.”

“No, Satya. I will.”

“We’ll provide you with back-up,” says Winston. “You’ll be safe, Angela.”

Mercy leans her staff against the wall and takes her gun from its holster. Her voice is grim when she says, “Thank you.”

*

They meet in an open field. This is Widowmaker’s show of peace. Hanzo, Ana, _anybody_ could easily take her out at this range. In fact, Hanzo, Tracer and Lucio are holed up in the bushes. Winston and Reinhardt are in the truck, too large to blend in.

Widowmaker knows anyway, of course. She smirks the second she sees Mercy and drawls, “Was the cavalry necessary?” as if she doesn’t know that it absolutely is.

She hears Tracer grumble, and says, “What do you want?”

“For somebody so characteristically warm and kind,” says Widowmaker, “you really are quite vicious. What do you intend to do with that gun of yours, darling, tickle me?” She takes a step closer.

Hanzo has an arrow lined up for the shot. They both know this. Widowmaker does not step down.

Widowmaker’s smirk does not drop, but it shifts, when she says, very quietly, “I need your help.”

“Why on Earth would you need _my_ help?”

“In exchange,” says Widowmaker, ignoring her, “I will provide you with the information you seek about Talon. To bring them down.”

It’s a tempting offer. Widowmaker is their best agent. She has an almost hundred percent kill rate, and she’s viciously beautiful, can lure in any target. Mercy looks at her with cautious eyes and tries not to be caught in her web.

“What do you want from me?”

Widowmaker is silent for a moment. When she speaks, it’s barely a breath.

“ _A way out_.”

*

They’ve been here before.

_A way out._

She doesn’t say it. She can’t.

She wonders if Widow remembers.

*

They meet the next Thursday around noon in the same spot. This time, she only has Tracer and Winston with her, back at the van. She’d rather they stay at home, really, not be here at all, but they had insisted. They worry. They worry about losing their pet healer, she supposes.

No, that’s not nice. It’s unfair. They love her. They care about her.

Widow is standing in the centre of the field, head upturned to the sky. It’s beginning to rain.

“Should we go under shelter?” asks Mercy.

Widow tilts her head at her. “I suppose that would be appropriate.” Without warning, she grabs Mercy around the waist and whisks her up over the treetops. They swing from Widow's hook, and Mercy’s life flashes before her eyes. They land both quickly and so, so slowly, on a small house up in the trees. Mercy doesn’t know how long it’s been up here. Decades, she thinks.

“Is this safe?” she questions.

“I have reinforced it.” Widow’s voice is dismissive. “Do not worry, little healer.”

“Don’t call me that,” she snaps.

“Why?” Widow’s tone is mean. “It is what you are, _non_?”

Mercy grits her teeth. Widow has her stranded up here. This was so stupid. But did she really have a choice?

“Mercy,” she hears in her ear. “Angela. Are you safe? Where are you?”

Mercy swallows. “I’m safe,” she says into the earpiece, and she turns it off.

Widow looks pleased with the action. Mercy feels sick.

Widow places her hand on a set of files next to her. It must have been her plan all along to come up here. Trap Mercy here.

 _Stop being so melodramatic,_ she thinks, but her heart is beating so fast she swears the sniper can hear it.

“Here is your first delivery of information,” says Widow. When Mercy reaches for the papers, she says, “Nuh uh. You agreed to help me, healer.”

Mercy waits.

“As you know,” says Widow, carefully, “Talon brainwashed me. Turned me into a sleeper agent.”

Mercy’s heart _breaks._

“I cannot undo what they did to you,” she says through the grief in her throat.

“I do not want to be undone,” Widow says. “I am perfectly happy the way I am. However, Talon can control me. With their words. Phrases.”

Mercy doesn’t want to hear this.

“I was neutrally reconditioned,” she says, matter-of-fact. “Tortured. They did horrible things to carve me into the woman that stands before you.”

“You can acknowledge that they were horrible things?”

Widow laughs, and it’s a terrible sound, like breaking glass. “I am a selfish spider, Angela Ziegler,” she says. “I may not feel much, darling, but I still feel pain. Once upon a time, I felt a lot more. When they broke me, I still felt. I still experienced things.”

“And now?”

“Now, little healer,” Widow says, “I am a gun trained on your head. But I will not shoot.”

“Why?”

“I want you to help me resist them,” she says. “The words.”

“What words?”

“Sometimes, I remember.” Widow looks down at her nails. They are perfectly manicured, painted black and delicately shaped. “Then,” she says, “there are words to stop me. To send me back to how I was. Triggers.”

“Do you know them?”

Widow hesitates, seeing the danger.

“I can only help you if I know the words,” Mercy says, and they both know full well Mercy will use them if she has to.

It is only fair, though. Mercy can heal, but she is not a killer. Widow is a killer, but cannot heal. Not herself.

Widow’s eyes shut, and she visibly struggles. “Put the spider to sleep. Agent 29, kill. Agent 29, reset.”

“Reset?”

“I lose,” Widow says, “my will. My memory. Temporarily.”

Mercy stares at the woman. Even at her most vulnerable, she looks fierce and deadly underneath the warm noon sunlight. She’s beautiful, with her cold and blue skin and her piercing eyes. Her gun lies loosely at her waist, one of Widow’s hands always on it, but Mercy doesn’t feel threatened.

“I will help you,” says Mercy.

*

Over dinner that night, McCree wants to know how the meeting went.

“You want me to put a bullet in her skull, you just say,” he says.

“As if you could outshoot her, Yankie,” Hanzo says, scathingly, and McCree glares at him.

It’s not until later when their newest addition, Hana Song, _D.va_ , follows Mercy outside that she gives in and speaks on the subject.

“Mercy,” she says. “Angela. I was wondering if you were okay.”

Mercy can’t help but be surprised at the concern. “What?”

“I wondered if you were okay,” says D.va. “I saw the look in your eyes when you returned from that meeting. You looked –”

And she’s just a kid, a _kid,_ so young, barely 19, but she looks like she knows so much right then. It terrifies Mercy.

“Sad,” D.va finishes, “like you’d lost somebody you loved.”

Mercy smiles. “I have,” she says, touches D.va’s shoulder gently, and goes back inside.

*

This time, they meet on a Saturday, and Mercy comes alone. The only reason she’s alone is because she doesn’t tell them about this meeting, leaves in the early morning before the sun is even up, and takes one of the old trucks.

The drive is quiet and peaceful, but she almost wishes she had Lucio’s music to drown out her thoughts.

She meets at Widow’s requested location, a quiet shack several miles out from their base. Widow does not look up when she walks in.

“The door was unlocked, I could have been anybody.” Mercy is disgruntled. “I could have been here to kill you.”

“Would that be so bad?” Widow laughs. “Sit down, little healer.”

“You want to die?”

“All I’m saying is that there are a lot of people who want to kill me,” says Widow, coldly amused, “and with good reason. Besides, few could even scratch me.”

Mercy can’t even speak.

“Tell me, _ma cherie,_  why did you agree to meet with me?”

Mercy is confused. “Because you offered information.”

“No, you didn’t. The information I can offer is valuable, but it is also sparse and specific, and you know that. I, too, have people I must protect. So why did you agree, little healer?”

“Don’t call me that.” Mercy swallows. “I owe you.”

Widow cocks her head. “For what?”

Mercy leaves.

They do not work on the words for another two weeks.

*

This time, Widow comes to her.

Mercy has just returned from a mission and she’s filthy and annoyed. She would have died if not for Reinhardt, who jumped in front of a projectile meant for her. Stupid Talon. Stupid omnics. Stupid wars.

She takes to the nearby forest and takes the small dagger Genji gifted her for her birthday a few months ago. She throws it repeatedly at a tree until the bark is covered in chips, but the blade never blunts, or even damages. Something about it makes her even angrier.

“Mercy, _ma cherie_ ,” says a quiet voice. “Stand down.”

Mercy flinches at the voice and hides the knife behind her back like a guilty child. Widow is edging towards her like one might walk towards a scared deer, hands out and face open and honest.

That’s not right. Widow is never honest.

“I’m not doing anything,” Mercy hisses, offended. “I was letting out some pent-up frustration.”

“Yes, on the tree, darling,” drawls Widowmaker. “We need those, you know. To breathe. I would much rather you let out your pent-up frustration with me.”

And she _winks._

Mercy wants to kill her.

But there’s a look on Widow’s face, something hesitant and knowing, something that says _I’ll take your bullshit about the tree, but blood is an awfully nice colour, isn’t it?_

Mercy gives her the knife.

“You remember,” says Mercy, and she collapses against the tree. She slides down until her butt hits the sticks and dirt, smudging all over her clothes.

Widow sits on a nearby rock. “Angela Ziegler, Moscow, 2051.”

Mercy looks away.

“I used to remember it like that,” she says. “When they were torturing me. To remind myself to hold on.”

“You didn’t remember _Gerard_?” The words are vicious.

Widow ignores her. “We were on a mission together,” she says. “There were a couple of others with us. We were both new to Overwatch. And you had a lot of baggage.”

Mercy remembers it so clear – the horrible feeling that she couldn’t shake. The feeling in her gut. The numbness. The anger. The pain. Her parents dead. Her brother dead. She hated the omnics. She hated the humans. She hated _everybody,_ because her whole fucking family was dead, and here she was.

Pure. Perfect. Angela Ziegler.

But Amélie had known.

Then she’s standing on the bridge, in the silent, empty, cold Moscow air, and looking down. The water rushed below her. It’s icy. The thought is thrilling.

“Mercy,” Amélie had said, and her voice was much softer, much warmer then. “Angela. Stand down.”

“This is none of your business.”

_Angela Ziegler._

“It is my business if you die,” Amélie had said. “As I do find that you are one of my closest friends.”

“I was not,” said Angela. “I would not.”

_Moscow._

“No?” Amélie had inclined her head. “Death is not something to be scared of. Neither is it something we should desire. Darling, _ma cherie,_ I understand. But I ask you to stand down, step away from the side, and come home with me, or I suppose I will have to follow you into the cold Moscow water.”

Angela had hated her, just a little bit.

Amélie said, “If you do, I will not speak of this again.”

_2051._

She never had.

Until now.

Mercy covers her face with her hands. “When you said you wanted to die –”

“I will not. I understand that it means much to you. I do, after all, wear the face of your friend.”

“You _are_ my friend.” The words are harsh, quick; she does not think before she speaks.

Widow looks almost pitying. “I am not Amélie Lacroix, Mercy. I am Widowmaker. I am telling you that I am not the same person.”

“And _I_ am telling you,” Mercy spits, “that you are my friend. Understood?”

Widow cannot hide her surprise, nor the small smile that drifts to her lips. It’s gone in the blink of an eye, but Mercy sees it. She can’t miss it. She’s been looking for it since the day they were reunited.

“Understood,” says Widow.

*

“How are your meetings going with the Talon agent, Widowmaker?” asks Winston one night over dinner. It’s just them tonight, the others having gone to bed after a long and hard mission at Gibraltar.

“I have provided you with the information, Winston,” Mercy says, not looking up from the newspaper, her tone almost defensive.

Winston says, “I was rather referring to _your_ end of the deal.”

“I don’t know.” Mercy sighs. “I cannot know if there is a change. Sometimes we don’t even work on it. We just sit and talk.”

“What you’re saying,” Winston says, his tone knowing, “is that the heartless, cold sniper Widowmaker wishes to converse with you.”

Mercy looks up at him, and she can’t help the smile that comes. “I suppose you’re right, Winston.”

It _has_ to mean something. Surely.

*

“Test it,” Widowmaker says.

“Test what?”

“You say to me one of the phrases, and I will see if I can resist.”

“Will it work if I say it?” Mercy is confused.

“It may backfire, and I may hurt you.” Widowmaker takes off her gun and passes it to Mercy. “In which case, you should kill me.”

_Stand down._

Mercy holds the gun in her hands. She has no clue how to use the thing. “Agent 29,” she says on a breath, “kill.”

May as well go all in.

Widowmaker changes in an instant, eyes flashing, striding towards Mercy. Mercy lets herself be pushed against the wall of the small safe house, which is beginning to not feel so safe anymore.

Mercy isn’t scared, though. She cannot bring herself to be.

She feels something else, something crushing and overwhelming and _familiar._

“Amélie,” says Mercy against the hand around her throat. “Widow. Widowmaker. _Agent 29,_ stop.” Widow’s resolve does not waver. Mercy’s eyes drift closed.

“Angela Ziegler,” she says. “Moscow.”

Widow flinches.

“2051.”

She does not let go.

Mercy takes the gun from where it is trapped between them and sprays.

Widow stumbles back, the bullets bouncing off something. _Of course. Bulletproof armour._

Widow’s head jerks up. Her eyes meet Mercy’s. The spell seems to be broken.

Widowmaker falls to her knees, head clutched in her hands, and she _screams._

Mercy kneels beside her, touching her back gently. She doesn’t lose that hand, surprisingly. Widow seems to be stuck in her own head, her personal prison.

“It is too much,” she says. “Too much. Too much. Too much.” She grabs the knife from Mercy’s belt. “Too much. Too much. Too much.”

“Stand down,” Mercy says, and her hands grip the knife’s hilt over Widow’s. “Angela Ziegler,” whispers Mercy. “Moscow,” and Widow breathes in. “2051,” and she breathes out.

Mercy ignores the tears dripping down her own face and embraces Widow, pulling her close. Widow lets her.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” she whispers. “Shh, shh, it’s okay.”

“Too much,” Widow gasps, and Mercy buries her face in Widow’s shoulder and sobs _._

*

It happens in the middle of the night, when Angela is standing outside on her balcony and resisting the urge to smoke.

It’s a terrible habit she used to have as a teenager, before she became a healer. Sometimes, when her world feels fragmented, her fingers itch for a cigarette in them. Something to relieve the pain. Since she lost one method many, many years ago.

They drop from the roof, and she’s weaponless and has no staff and she’s unconscious in a second.

Her last thought is _Talon,_ because she recognises the insignia on the coats, and wonders if Widowmaker knew of this all along.

*

She dreams of nothing but clouds that she falls through, and wakes up with a mouth like cotton.

“We cannot kill her,” says a familiar voice, and Mercy opens her eyes. Her head is pounding.

“She is an Overwatch agent,” says a low, amused voice. “We must kill her.”

“She could be valuable.”

“We have the blueprints. We stole them when we stole _her._ ”

_She didn’t know. Widow didn’t know._

The thought is so relieving she can’t bring herself to care that she’s going to die.

She’s tied up, her back pressed against the wall. She’s surrounded by several guards, one of whom she recognises as Reaper, and there is a man standing before her, flanked by Widow. He’s smirking at Mercy.

Mercy spits at him, and then he’s suddenly not smirking anymore. He strikes her, and Widow swallows. She does nothing.

Suddenly, Mercy is furious.

“I hate you,” she yells at Widow. “You did this to me, _I hate you._ ”

Widow’s expression does not change. Cold. Cold. Maybe they brainwashed her again. Maybe it worked. Maybe she remembers nothing.

Widow's eyes dare her to say something. To say the words.

Mercy says nothing.

There is no drama to it. No fancy speech. The man raises his gun and shoots Mercy in the heart.

As she falls, Mercy watches Widow’s cold heart break. She rushes to catch Mercy before she can hit the ground, and Mercy’s eyes flutter closed, and the world spins out.

“Agent 29,” says the man, “ _reset._ ”

The last words she hears before everything goes black:

“Angela Ziegler. Moscow. 2051.”

*

She flickers in and out of consciousness. Her chest feels like something heavy is sitting on it. The pain is so strong part of her wants to die.

But Amélie’s voice is clear in her head.

_Death is not something to be scared of. Neither is it something we should desire._

Widowmaker is not Amélie. But she is something like her. She is somebody new.

And fuck if that doesn’t stop Mercy from loving her just as much.

*

When she finally wakes up, it’s in the infirmary.

There’s a stream of light flowing from her to the staff beside her in the bed. She looks down at her hand, which is clutching the staff tightly. Ana is snoozing lightly beside her.

“What is this,” Mercy says flatly, staring at the staff.

“We made some,” Ana says, “adjustments. Based on the blueprints of yours we found at the Talon headquarters. Widowmaker was surprisingly helpful.”

Mercy smiles to herself. “They were the wrong blueprints.” Plans for a staff that can also self-heal.

“I know.” Ana looks angry. “You would have died for them?”

“I knew she would save me.”

“She almost didn’t,” Ana snaps. “She was blinded with anger. We found the Talon members in – well. You would rather not know, Angela.”

“Okay, mother,” Mercy says, and Ana scowls at her.

Mercy gently stops the stream and sits up slowly. She feels healed. Not completely, but she has the staff now – her blueprints _worked._ A staff that can self-heal. The possibilities are endless. She’s so _excited._

Ana watches her struggle with the pain of moving. “Stop. You nearly died, you know.”

“But I did not.”

Ana sighs. “I will leave you to rest. I’m glad you’re okay.”

“Hey,” Mercy says, as Ana is walking away. When Ana looks back over her shoulder, she says, “Thank you.”

Ana huffs and walks out.

*

The next time Mercy wakes up, it’s to cold skin and sharp nails against her arm.

“Ouch,” she says.

“I – my apologies.” Widow hesitates. “I did not mean to hurt you. You’re awake.”

“And so are you,” says Mercy, and Widow understands.

She smiles slightly. “It is true.” Widow swallows. “I am still not her. I know you wish I was.”

“I have not wished you were for a very, very long time. I still think you have some of her inside of you. But I love you however you are.”

And, oh God, she ruined it. She said the thing she was never supposed to say aloud. 

“Love?” Widow asks, like she doesn’t quite understand the meaning of the word.

“I,” says Mercy, and Widow kisses her.

*

She says it sometimes at night, when she’s having particularly bad nightmares, shaking and covered in sweat. At these times, Mercy can only watch, because if she touches her before she’s properly awake terrible things may happen. She’s learnt that from experience. She had the black eye for weeks.

“Angela Ziegler,” Widow sighs. “Moscow. 2051.”

Her eyes flicker open, and fixes on Mercy. She deflates in relief.

“I love you,” says Mercy.

“I do not know,” Widow says, “what love feels like.”

Mercy kisses Widow gently and places a hand on her chest. Her slow, slow heart beats a little faster.

“It feels like this,” Mercy says.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> There are some pretty dark themes in this. None of it is incredibly graphic, but there are references to depression, suicide and self-harm. Read with care.


End file.
